


Broken Open

by chll51



Series: in another life, you'd be mine [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Jo Lives, The AU no one asked for, also it references only up to S5 so anything else is so inaccurate, because she fucking deserves to, but I'm getting nostalgic, characterizations might be off, it hurts, since I've not seen an episode since s5, so I'm gonna try to finish this dean/jo fic that I started a long ass time ago
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-24
Updated: 2018-06-17
Packaged: 2019-01-04 18:01:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12173925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chll51/pseuds/chll51
Summary: The apocalypse ends on a silent note, differently than how she anticipated it would.





	1. Prologue

_/ I'm still alive but I'm barely breathing /_

 

 

Ten days after Carthage, Jo ambushes a bunch of demons in search of Meg and ends up with a six inch scar on the side of her stomach. She walks in the house with a hand on her stomach to keep the blood from pouring out. Sam sees her first and almost faints from the sight. Dean finds out what happened from Sam once he came back from a solo hunt, and screams at her for being so _fucking careless_. She glances at Sam, who looks guilty from head to toes. She says nothing and lets her mind drifts elsewhere. She wakes up a few nights later gasping for air and soaking in tears.

It’s not long ( _exactly a week_ ) before she uses the Colt that Dean was too stupid to use in the first place and shoots Meg right between the brows. It’s not easy or without collateral damage, but it’s worth it; instead of being dead, she only ends up with a half torn leg and a reopened stomach wound. That’s a pretty good trade-off in her opinion. Sam finds her first ( _it’s always him, never Dean_ ); his face turns ghostly white when he sees all the blood, but once she explains that it’s not all hers and points toward Meg’s body, he releases a small breath of relief.

Dean, on the other hand, isn’t as kind. His face turns red and his lips twitches like there’s no tomorrow. Sam knows that World War III just might happen so he steps in front and holds him back by the shoulders. “Dean, she’s okay,” Sam tries to appease him with a half-ass smile. "Meg's dead."

“Oh shove it, Sammy. She’s clearly out of her freaking mind.” He then brushes Sam off, like he always does, and approaches her like he’s the big bad wolf and she’s the little Red Riding Hood. “Are you trying to get yourself fucking killed?”

She wants to give a shit but absolution feels emptier than it should. “Maybe, what’s it to you?”

“Are you out of your fucking mind? No—wait—don’t even answer that—” Her words must have a bigger affect than she thought it’d because rambling is never a Dean Winchester thing. “You’re impossible—”

“I don’t need another mother, Dean,” says Jo as she rolls her eyes, “so thank you but fuck off, would you?”

Then he shuts up and storms out, not without cursing _son of a bitch_ under his breath.

Sam stands there like a lost puppy. “Jo, I’m—”

“Don’t.” She’s surprised by the harshness of her own voice as her eyes begin to burn. “Can you give me a minute, Sam?”

He nods understandingly and leaves the room.

Once safe, she breaks into sobs because it hurts more than she could imagine; because nothing’s been the same since Carthage, since her mother’s death, since her two failed suicide attempt. Fuck it all, she mutters and rocks her body back and forth. She should have fucking died instead.

When Dean comes back hours later (no doubt he’s driven to some bar to blow off steam), he quietly calls out her name. “Jo?” It’s the softest tone he has spoken to her in months. “Y’wake?”

She has long erased the tears from her face but she always senses that he’d known regardless, so she turns out the lights and keeps her eyes close just for safety.

“Jo?”

“Go to sleep, Dean.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

They both turn silent as he takes his prospective place on the bed over and pretends that he doesn’t know why she’s acting the way she does or he’s reacting the way he does. Then another two weeks pass before she stands across from him with a suitcase in hand. “I’m done.” It comes out easier than she thought and she doesn’t cry (she thinks it’s probably because she’s emptied all the tears weeks before).

He says nothing, only stares; not that it matters much since all she hears or sees on his face these day is guilt, just like Sam's.

A few minutes pass before the silence gets to her. “Say something, Dean.” Her voice turns cold, desperate, and angry. “Say anything.”

He nods toward Sam and out he goes, leaving the two alone.

“Say you’re right.” Her voice trembles but the tears have long stopped forming. “I know you’re thinking it.”

“You chose this.” His voice carries no sympathy and his face’s blank. He doesn’t do sentiment well, and she wonders why she was attracted to him in the first place. “You know what this life entails.”

“I know—” her throat turns parched like it hasn’t tasted water in years “—I just never thought that—” She then looks away as his face hardens. They both know what’s hanging on the tip of her tongue that’s been long overdue. “I don’t know where I’m going with that.”

“Say it.” His voice turns harsh, like dagger piercing her skin. “It’s my fault.”

“No.”

He scoffs. “I’m the reason that your mother’s dead.”

He always does this, blames himself for every single thing that happens like he actually has control over them.

“My dad killed your dad–”

“I know the fucking story,” she says, resigned, “so can we, for once, just say goodbye like normal people?”

Instead of answering, he gives her a look that says otherwise; and the truth of the matter is, he’ll believe what he wants, no matter how hard she tries to convince him otherwise and she has grown too tired to do that any longer. “I won’t stop you.”

“I know.” Her shoulders drop as she sighs. “I’ll be seeing you, Dean.” She then picks up her luggage and drags her feet to the door, spotting a sullen Sam sitting at the bottom of the steps. “Hey.”

He frowns, wrinkling his brows together. “You leaving, Jo?”

She always did like Sam. “Yeah, while I can, y’ know?” She tries to lighten the mood but neither laughs. “Good luck, okay?”

He nods and understands what she wanted to say but couldn’t. “I’ll make sure that he’ll—I mean—we’ll both be okay.”

Her smile falters briefly. “I know.”

Then they hug before she gets into her beat up car and drives away.


	2. Normalcy or Something Like It

_/ Well, darling, let's hurt tonight /_

 

 

The apocalypse ends on a silent note, differently than how she thought it would.

She finds Sam ( _or rather, he finds her; and it’s not Dean, never Dean_ ) on the steps of her house. He's barely conscious, with a slow heart beat. It takes three days for him to wake up from his coma because according to him, saving the world from Lucifer can do that to a person ( _he’s turning a bit cocky and she doesn’t question where, or rather, who he gets that from_ ). She calls Bobby to let him know that Sam’s okay. He pretends that he’s not crying over the phone and that it’s only the god-damned allergies. 

Sam doesn’t talk about Dean and neither does she; but his name is always hanging in the air, crushing in between their lungs. She wonders why it doesn't feel weird with all this silence between them. One day, she hands him an address. He looks up; brows wrinkle and confused. “What’s this?” asks Sam, but he knows. He's the smart one after all, got into college and everything.

“What does it look like?”

“An address.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” she remarks. “It’s Dean’s location.”

His mouth parts slightly and uneasily before he hands it back to her. “I don’t need it.”

“Don’t be stupid, Sam.”

His shoulders slumps down. “You don’t understand, Jo—I—”

“Don’t care, and don’t want to know. You’ve been moping around like you’ve lost a damn lover or something—” She pauses and holds up the piece of paper again. “He’s been staying some girl by the name of Lisa—” The look on his face tells her that he knows who she’s talking about “—So don’t be a dumbass. Go see him and give yourself a peace of mind.”

He hesitates before taking it in his hand slowly, like a kid that’s afraid of grabbing a present too quickly for the fear of having it slip through his fingers. Then he looks up and asks, “How did you find his address anyway?”

She doesn’t tell him that she couldn’t sleep three nights before their fight or that she tracked Dean down after hearing he was resurrected (she’s still a hunter even if she no longer hunts) or that she stayed outside for three days after to make sure that he was okay. Instead, she merely releases an exasperated breath, “You have your secrets and I have mine, so you want it or not?”

Sam flashes a grateful smile then heads for the door. Before exiting, he turns back. “I never did ask,” he starts then changes his mind when he sees an annoyed look on her face; he then settles with the question of, “You, this house, those pictures—new life, huh?”

“I went back to school—mom always wanted that for me, y’know? Thought I’d do it before I’m—” She slits a finger across her throat. “Anyway, met someone. Doing the normal thing. I guess.”

“Oh?” He sounds surprised, not that she blames him. “He’s a—”

She cuts in. “Regular guy with a nine to five job.”

“Oh.”

“I know. Me, the freak with a knife collection and the boy next door, who’d have thought?”

“I’m happy for you, Jo.”

She smiles, a real one this time. “You should try it, now that you're free."

"I think about it sometimes," he says, quietly and carefully. "After Jessica, and everything else in between then and now, I don't know if that life is for me anymore. I guess I wouldn't know what it'd be like to be normal. To not watch out for the devil."

"Well, you saved the world so maybe it's time you find out."

He stays quiet. His eyes skim her face then he breaks into a small smile. "Maybe you're right. I have all the time in the world now."

Then he drives off without promising to come back. She doesn’t ask him if he will either because she knows the Winchesters were never good at staying in one place longer than necessary and their promises are as fleeting as the wind brushing against her hair. She then licks her lips dryly before turning in. It’s a good thing he didn’t stay here long or else she’d have missed him more than she needs to.


	3. Clockwork

_/ round and around we go  
Tell me now, tell me now you know /_

 

 

 

 

She finds Dean waiting on her steps when she comes back from school a week later. She stops to catch her breath ( _easy in, easy out_ ). He looks up, and their gaze locks for the first time in months. He looks older, more mature and slightly worn out. She could barely muster a greeting when he simply says, “Hey Jo,” like they’re not strangers anymore.

Her resolve to treat him like a stranger crumbles before her eyes; and it’s not fair that he can still do that to her with just two words.

He then looks at the ground. “How long?”

She scoffs with sarcasm as she walks pass and he follows closely behind. “Why Dean, I’m fine. Thanks for asking and no, I’m glad to see you too.” Of course it’s about Sam. It’s always been about Sam, and it shouldn’t but it does; and because she’s still bitter that it’s always Sam and never him. “And what do you mean by how long?”

The frown on his lips deepens. “Don’t play with me.”

“I didn’t even realize we were playing.”

He grabs on to her arm for dear life and swings her around. “Damn it, Jo. This isn’t a game!” His voice sounds like lightning striking during a sunny day. It doesn’t scare her. Nothing does anymore. “Tell me where he is.” His voice quickly turns softer. “Please—Is Sammy here?”

“Let go,” her eyes then narrow dangerously, “now.”

There’s an imprint of his fingers on her wrist when he releases, and he didn’t realize that he had grabbed on so tightly. ‘Sorry.”

She shrugs. “Don’t be.”

“Jo.”

“Dean.”

“Sam—”

“I don’t know where Sam is,” she interrupts, “and I don’t know where he could be.”

He stares at her for a while, probably trying to see if she’s lying (she’s not) then sighs. “Will you—”

“No.” She then pours herself a glass of water. Talking to Dean has a habit of turning her throat dry, she thinks, as she chugs it down. He’s still there when she turns around. “Anything else?”

He stares at her, and it’s a look she hasn’t seen in a while. It reminds her how butterflies in her stomach used to feel. “I’m sorry,” he blurts out then looks down at the ground like he’s a kid being scold. “For everything.”

She gulps; the urge of wanting to cry tightens her throat. “I know.” It’s the same damn story of boy meets girl. Girl falls, and boy lets her. Wrong time, wrong place, says boy and puts that on repeat. Somewhere in between, there are _my dad shot your daddy_ and _hey, your mom died because of me_ reasoning that she sometimes forget. “How’d you find me?”

He smirks and she thinks that she can still see the old Dean hiding underneath all the lines. “You’re not the only good at tracking people.” 

She flashes him a grin.

He angles his head toward the chairs. “Shall we?” She says nothing and follows along as they move from the kitchen back to the living room. Five minutes of silence then they try to fill the silence with useless conversations about their mundane life rather than getting down to the heart of the matter: the whys and the what-ifs. He pauses, which she notices when she sees his eyes skimming over her shoulders to the pictures behind her, then looks back at her.

“Name’s Michael.”

“I didn’t ask.”

“Didn’t have to.”

“Name’s Lisa.”

“I know.”

The left corner of his mouth curves up as he peers up at her. “Me too.”

She licks her lips dryly, biting back the first thing that comes to her mind (a snarky comment that no doubt will result in him storming out like he always does).

“It’s getting late.” It still sounds wrong even after contemplation. “She’ll worry.”

He feigns a smile, and she sees it a mile away. His fingers run through his hair as he leans back into the chair. “Maybe.”

“I’ll walk you out.” She stands up first and leads him to his car. They don’t speak until his hand is on the handle.

“So…” It’s unlike him to stall. “You happy?”

She could only shrug, knowing she should say yes. She found a good man, has a decent job and is doing well in her class. All those things should equate to being happy. “I’m still breathing, aren’t I?”

“I see.”

“He doesn’t make me worry.”

There’s a quick flicker of emotion then it’s gone. He clicks his tongue and stares at the keys in his hands. “No, I can’t imagine he would.” Then he takes his leave while she lingers on, watching him drive off while pushing the thought of running after him away. Once he’s out of sight, she finds Sam waiting in the shadow (it’s like clockwork with these two). She sighs, “One day, you two will be the death of me.”

It meant to be a joke, or maybe a premonition. Either way, he doesn’t laugh, and just stares at the ground like it’s made of gold or something.

When she closes the gap between them, she notices tears circling his eyes. He looks at her like he needs saving, and she curses under her breath. She has a soft spot for tortured souls, she thinks, or maybe just for the damn Winchesters and invites him inside. Once seated, his arms rest on his lap, silent as usual. She leaves him for a couple of minutes (she doubts that he even notices she’s gone) to grab the 32pack of beers she’s stashed in the garage. Then, with all her strength, she throws it on the table, earning (finally) startled reaction. “What the hell—”

“You, me, wasted, today,” she cuts in and throws him a can. “Start drinking.”

They start slow. No one speaks; and words aren’t necessary because there’s no awkwardness, never with him. By the time the 6th can roll around, he starts opening up. “I’m horrible, right?” he asks; voice starts to crack, “I mean, I want him to be happy but it feels like he’s—”

“Forgetting that you’ve ever existed?” she continues for him “Drink up.”

He takes a small gulp before finishing the thought. “It’s selfish.”

“You’re only human.”

He laughs because it’s been awhile since anyone’s called him that. “Right.”

“God, I’m so sick of both of you and your self-hatred shit,” she says, not bothering to hide the disdain in her tone. “You both carry the weight of the world like it’s yours to hold. He’s happy, so what? Screw him. You can do it too, be happy.”

“You make it sounds like it’s easy.”

“It’s not, especially with that whole you-are-me-I-am-you type of deal you got going on with Dean but—” she pauses for dramatic effect and sips her beer “—you’ve known that one day, you two would have to lead separate life. Well, that day’s coming, Sam, so either you buckle up and deal with it or let your boxer ends up in a bunch. Whatever works, y’ know?”

He drops his head and bites his lips bitterly. “I don’t even know what kind of life I want anymore.”

“Go back to hunting. Kill some more. Save some people. Go to school. Date a girl. Marry a girl. Have a family. Do whatever the fuck you want. The world’s your oyster.”

He looks at her funnily. “The world is my oyster? Since when has Jo Harvelle become so sentimental?”

She smirks, reminding him of someone’s else. “Since I fucking wanted to be.”

It could be that she’s funny or maybe it’s the beer. Either way, he erupts in a fit of laughter like he hasn’t heard anything funnier in years. “I guess.”

“Don’t guess. Just do it.”

“That’s a Nike commercial.”

She wrinkles her nose. “Nike stole that shit from me.”

“Right.”

“I’m serious, Sam,” she says, leaning in, “Why waste it brooding over something that stupid? It’s not like you can’t keep Dean in your life. Hell, if I know you two, you’ll find a way to be with each other—” she pauses when she sees disgusted face “—what?”

“You make it sound like we’re lovers.”

“Well—” she then clicks her tongue and laughs when she sees his frown. “All joking aside, you damn Winchesters are so aggravating. You act like you’re star-crossed family or something when all you need is to call. Some people don’t even get that privilege.”

His face turns into horror. “God—I’m—”

“Oh shove it, Sam,” she then rolls her eyes. “All I’m saying is that you act like he’s buried 9ft underneath the ground or something. Family is family; no matter where you are so just because you guys are not hunting together, it doesn’t mean shit, okay?”

His expression softens as he concedes defeat. “Okay.”

Then they cheers and drink the night away.

Like the Winchester that he is, he leaves the next morning and all she finds is a note that he left behind.


	4. The Monsters are Real

_/ Love, the monster's got me now /_

 

 

 

Sam leaves, and she sees death.

He leaves, and she couldn’t stop seeing fallen bodies, demons lurking or some vengeful spirits pacing around like it’s fucking Christmas; and she tries. God, she tries so hard to shield her eyes but the hunter in her said it was foolish to try; so she sets devil's trap under the rug and puts holy water near her bed. She also puts a gun by her night stand for safety purposes. Jo feels her fingers twitches and tastes the familiar burning on her tongue. It makes her wants to pack up and just fucking leave the normalcy that she has managed to build; but she doesn’t because she remembers the price tag that comes with a hunter’s life; so she stays as long as she could until she sees claw marks on her door, smeared with blood.

When Michael comes home, he asks why she’s cleaning the door. “What do you mean? It's dirty.”

Michael cocks his head, confused. “I'm pretty sure I’m staring at a cleaned door.”

She drops the cloth and curses, “Fuck,” which only makes it worse. “Look, there are some things I haven’t quite told you.”

“Yeah I figure that since you're looking like you're seeing ghosts,” he says, “Does it have something to do with that guy I saw?”

She whips her head around. “What guy?”

He shrugs. “He has like chestnut hair, short. He was hanging around when I first met you for like a couple of days. Then one day, he disappeared. I figure I must have imagined it.”

She sighs with relief. “No.”

“But you know who I am talking about.”

“Yes.”

“Then what's going on, Jo? I feel like I don't know who you are anymore.”

“It's complicated.” She wants to tell him everything, about hunting, about her parents, about the traps, the salts and the whole nine yards. She knows that if she does, he won't be safe. (part of her thinks it’s because he might not understand and might look at her like she’s some kind of freak). "Just trust me."

He sighs. "First you're telling me that there are things i don't know. Then I find you cleaning a perfectly clean door. Then you know the guy that stalked you, and you're asking for my trust. You're not giving me a lot to go on here."

"I just can't explain it."

“Why the hell not?”

“Because I just can’t, okay?” Jo replies, frustrated.  "Believe me. It's for your safety.”

That starts another argument that by the end, she grows wary and worn out and him packing all his stuff, leaving before the night ends.

Jo should chase after him, but she calls Sam instead.

 

 

 

“You should have told me you were out hunting," she says, voice sharp like it wants to cut him in two. She's at Bobby's house after Sam told her it was hard to explain things over the phone. The drive here did not dim her anger. "And now I find out a djinn is behind all of this?"

Sam looks over at Bobby, who gives him a sign not to involve him. “I couldn’t. You looked happy.”

“Fuck off.”

“I was trying to protect you. That’s why I went back. I was trying to see if the djinn got you or not.”

“I am not a child that needs protection. It doesn’t help me to be stuck in the dark and how dare you take the choice away from me?” says Jo, feeling her anger coming to the surface. Her nails dig into her palms. “Thanks to you, I thought I was going crazy. Turns out I was a target. Not to mention my relationship went down the drain.”

Sam sighs. “You're right. I’m sorry.”

“Does Dean know?”

“What?”

"Don't play dumb," she says, teeth gritting. "I am not in the mood to humor you."

“No,” he says, clearing his throat and averting his gaze. “I was trying—”

“Yeah, you’re real shit at that,” she interrupts. “Chances are he probably is a target too, since you were the first victim. This djinn is just going down a list. You should have told Dean. He has people he needs to look out for and he can't head in blindly.”

Sam hangs his head and dials Dean's number.

 

 

 

“Son of a—"

“I already yelled at him,” finished Jo, as she sharpens her knife. She then looks up and gives Dean a simple greeting. She didn’t think he would get here so fast. “Also he's not here.”

“Oh,” he says, then stuffs his hands in his pocket. “Been's awhile.”

She rolls her eyes. “Sam knew you would just storm in and yell at him so he volunteered to go with Bobby to gather some reinforcement. He wanted you to cool down a bit, especially after that  _loud_ phone call between the two of you."

Dean pinches his temple. “I swear I’m going to kill him. First he comes back from the dead and avoids me. Then he knows something was going to happen, and left me in the dark.”

She opens the fridge and tosses him a beer. “Something to take your edge off.”

“What exactly are we dealing with?”

“I’ll let Sam explains that when he comes back,” she says, “What did you tell Lisa?”

“The truth.”

She licks her lips dryly. “That’s nice. She's tough. Being a mother and all.”

“I got her to a safe house just in case.”

“Drink your beer before it gets warm.”

He pops it open and takes a sip. “Was your idea, or Sam's to call me?”

She shrugs. “Does it matter? You're here, right?”

“Yeah,” says Dean with soft eyes. “Right time. Right place.”

 

 

 

\- _fin_  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story has ended and it only took forever a year. Thanks to everyone who read this somewhat oneshot.


End file.
